


Puppy's Love

by raven_aorla



Series: Made to Measure [9]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 05:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14442813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: Penguin orders Zsasz and company to keep an eye on teenage employee Jonathan Crane? Easy.One of Zsasz's company wants to get it on with Jonathan Crane? Complicated.[Mostly takes place during "Intangible Quantities". Having read "The Other Tally" or "A Deeper Cut" will suffice for preparation.]





	Puppy's Love

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled on the song the story links to after having already begun this fic. And was like O_O.

Penguin slides a photo across his desk. He looks well today, has been looking well, like he’s been eating better and staying calmer since he married his mostly funny, but sometimes annoying, quirky beanpole soulmate. There’s still that hint of shrewd sharpness about him. If Penguin - not Oswald Cobblepot - ever really goes soft, Casa del Zsasz will quickly find a new patron.

Zsasz studies the picture. It’s a scrawny teenager in jeans and a hoodie bent over a huge neurochemistry book. His messy brown bangs hide part of his pale face, but his eyes are an intent, focused blue. Deeper than Penguin’s. Whoever this is? Not soft.

“Boss, all due respect, but you know we don’t whack kids. If he’s a kid and doesn’t just have, I dunno, a gland problem.” Strictly speaking, they might kill a teenager who gets in the way after being warned not to, but that’s not quite the same.

Penguin shakes his head. “Luckily, you’re to help keep him alive on an ongoing basis. He’s working for us. _Secretly._ Edward put this briefing packet together for you.” He slides a folder over.

Zsasz opens it, and the first thing he sees are neatly bundled newspaper clippings. He skims the headlines and whistles. A different kind of gland problem.

***

That afternoon, Zsasz takes a break from ammo inventory, hungry and bored. There are way more shotgun shells than they need, unless Teeth slipped some of his hunting supplies in there.

“I remember the headlines about his father, now that you mention it,” Leonara says over their late lunch. Most of the family is busy right now, but Leonara and Candy are overlapping with him today on daytime downtime.

Candy’s eating her sandwich one-handed so she can leaf through the briefing packet, which has additional pictures. “Poor thing. I know what it’s like when family drags you into their bullshit. How’d he get off scot-free? I guess the only evidence was for accessory to one attempted murder. Maybe the witness felt sorry for him.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t say he got off scot-free. That’s a shit-ton of medication.” Leonara taps Nygma’s rundown of the kid’s medical issues with a finger. Her knuckles are bruised from a fight yesterday. She was uninjured otherwise. All her other bruises are from post-fight celebratory enthusiasm, as are a few under Zsasz’s clothes.

“Doc teach you that medical term?” Zsasz teases, initiating footsie with her under the table.

Candy rolls her eyes before turning her attention back to the intel. “He’s kinda cute.”

“He’s either sixteen or seventeen depending on his birthday, Candace,” Leonara scolds.

“Legal in this state,” Candy counters. “I’m only twenty-four.”

“Only a nineteen or twenty-year-old would pass the Creepy Algorithm. Half the older partner’s age plus seven.” Leonara had bad experiences with much older men back when she didn’t know how to stand up for herself yet. She’s sensitive about it.

“The puppy’s not quite twenty-one yet,” Zsasz remarks thoughtfully. When this fails to dispel the tension, he adds, “Speaking of birthdays, got advice on what I should send my bubbe?”

Leonara relaxes. “Your grandmother just wants you to _visit_ , Vic, you know that.”

***

A few days later, the puppy comes home from getting more unpaid field experience hours and brings the documentation. Zsasz fully sprawls out on the living room couch to look over the documentation. The comments following the satisfaction scorecard are so clinical it’s hilarious.

 _I was referred by a mutual friend. Mr. Nefyn “Knifepoint” Pontiac’s assistance was invaluable in safely escorting me to Merc for some much-needed discreet laboratory equipment purchases. This required him to dispatch and dispose of a mugger en route as well as carry heavy boxes on the way home. While not entirely professional in demeanor, he was capable and friendly. I would hire him again, including if I had to pay. Does he do self-defense lessons? - Jonathan_ Followed by a safely generic email address.

“Wait.” Zsasz pokes the puppy’s arm to make him pause in shining the Zsaszettes' shoes. He’s laid newspaper down to protect the carpet. “Was the mutual friend who referred you Penguin? Or Nygma?”

The puppy stares at him. “I’ve never interacted directly with either of them, sir. It was Cat. Why?”

Nobody’s told the puppy about their new “reverse contract”. That’s grown-up business. But the combination of first name and mention of lab equipment is a hell of a coincidence. “Did the guy tell you his full name?”

“No, sir.”

“Describe him.”

“He’s about seventeen, I think. Thin. Dark hair. Serious. His…” The puppy lets out something suspiciously like a sigh. “His eyes are _so blue._ ”

The puppy’s got a cute little blue fixation. Since his mom’s brother could see colors just fine, a similar inability to accurately see any non-neutral color except blue is the one clue the puppy has about who his father might be. He actually checked to make sure Zsasz could see colors normally before the first time he hit on him, despite the age difference being improbable. Brenda "Butterfly” Dupont - Carrie Pontiac when under witness protection - sounds like she would have been Zsasz’s type, though. Apparently she had a tramp stamp of a folded balisong with spread blue butterfly wings.

Zsasz leans over to where the puppy's kneeling and ruffles his hair. “Okay, until further notice, you can give him self-defense lessons if he asks, but keep your pants on.”

“Yes, sir.” He goes back to shoe-shining. The Zsaszettes abduct him the second he’s finished. Seriously, there’s a flying tackle, rope, duct tape, and giggling.

 

***

A few weeks later, Zsasz calls a meeting with the four women of the household. The moment everyone is seated around the dining table, he says, “Jonathan Crane kissed our apprentice after a self-defense lesson. Now the he wants permission to take it further. I told him I needed to think about it.”

“Because Crane is indirectly a client, and Penguin and Nygma might not be cool with it,” Leonara says right away.

“Because our resident stabby-but-sweet Hufflepuff might get his heart broken getting with someone who’s a big ol’ ball of fucked over and fucked up,” Candy adds.

Yoona leans forward on her elbows and says dryly, “Because _he might get his organs harvested for fear drug ingredients._ ”

“I don’t think Jonathan would be stupid enough to try to kill Nefyn even if he wanted to, honey.” Doc places a hand between Yoona’s shoulder blades. “And if he did want to, he’d find it a challenge. My concerns lie with the first two objections.”

Candy taps her chin thoughtfully. “On the other hand, it’d be better for the puppy :to take those risks openly rather than sneaking around behind our backs. You’d be surprised how many times I got away with femme-presenting nights out on the town before Sal found out and demoted me for it.”

For a few moments, Zsasz enjoys imagining Salvatore Maroni’s reaction to Candy in full glam mode, particularly her special neon purple mini skirt. Then back to business. “You have a point. [Also, arguably, letting the puppy fool around with him might count as taking really, really good care of an ‘indirect client’.”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13630461?view_full_work=true)

Leonara facepalms. “That just sounds like pimping.”

They discuss the matter further, then move to other matters, like this month’s budget and Leonara’s father’s upcoming parole hearing. Zsasz leaves the room determined to deny the request. There’s too much that can go wrong. Trouble is, the puppy’s done too good a job making himself scarce. When Zsasz is done checking the converted barn they live in, he tries the nearby farmhouse they’ve repurposed for storage and exercise spaces. They need it, what with using the basement for torture instead.

It’s a cold night, but the weight room is warm, bright, and noisy. Teeth is spotting for Jesús. Zsasz notices in passing that Teeth is wearing an old t-shirt that says THIS IS MY RIFLE - THIS IS MY GUN - ONE IS FOR BATTLE - ONE IS FOR FUN. Jesús, meanwhile, is shirtless. Doc says the scar he claims is from a bar fight is probably from a sloppy appendectomy.

Teeth’s either making fun of his buddy or trying to motivate him. Zsasz doesn’t understand macho bonding norms. “C’mon, bro, do you even lift? Yoona can bench more than that! She’s tiny!”

(She can’t, but whatever.)

“Either of you see the puppy?” Zsasz interrupts.

“He was looking...for..something...to do,” Jesús gasps.

Teeth waves amiably. “We asked him to clean up the sparring ring. Jesús accidentally punched me in the nose when we were showing him a move, so I kinda bled a little. Sorry.”

“Uh, if the girls can play fight without making a mess, so can you,” Zsasz says, but not harshly. Jesús in particular has taught the puppy various useful skills.

He finds the puppy mopping the sparring ring. No, he’s finished that. What he’s doing is slow-dancing with the mop. [While singing.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C092uisdqh8)

_You’re dripping like a saturated sunrise_  
_You’re spilling like an overflowing sink_  
_You’re ripped at every edge, but you’re a masterpiece_  
_And now I’m ripping through the pages and the ink_

_Everything is blue,_  
_His pills, his hands, his jeans,_  
_And now I’m covered in the colors_  
_Pulled apart at the seams_  
_And it’s blue, and it’s blue_

_Everything is gray,_  
_His hair, his smoke, his dreams,_  
_And he’s so devoid of color_  
_He don’t know what it means_  
_And he’s blue, and he’s blue_

Zsasz is fairly sure he’s never been in love. Not like he’s heard it described. It's surprising enough that he feels love at all, given how his emotions are all supposedly off-kilter. He feels amused affection for the two dorks in the weight room. He adores the Zsaszettes, past and present. He feels protective of and grateful towards Doc. And treasures the puppies, past and present.

And present.

“Are you going to ask for permission to screw the mop?” Zsasz asks with a smirk, cutting the puppy off.

The puppy drops the mop, blushing. “No, sir. Sorry. Uh. What did you decide?”

******

_Twenty years later…_

Zsasz is never going to hear the end of it. His whole family has been telling him for ages that he’s gotten too old for field work, and that the forest of tally marks on his skin is more like a taiga now and more than enough. He says he isn’t too old for the craving or the thrill.

He is, apparently, too old to evade Batman.

“The doctor’s ready for you,” the orderly says, pushing Zsasz through the office door.

Dr. Jonathan Crane was relatively young when he became Arkham’s psychiatric director, which these days is a separate position with equal power to the warden. One looks after the “hospital” aspect of the asylum, and the other is in charge of the “prison” aspect. They’re also meant to keep each other in check. Zsasz has chatted with some old-timers who say the place has changed considerably. Now there are consistent exercise yard privileges, and a decent little library. Much of the time, patients who behave actually get better. Some say that mysterious bad things happen to those who don't toe the line, on either side of the bars.

Crane is younger than his predecessor. Who had a nervous breakdown.

One of the higher-ups opposed Crane’s appointment despite his being the most senior psychiatrist working at Arkham at the time, and called him “a nutjob who should have been locked up here since sixteen” when he thought he was alone with a friend. A nervous breakdown followed shortly after.

Crane expressed regret that so many of his esteemed colleagues were “succumbing to their high-stress profession”, and maintained that his own experiences as “a beneficiary of psychiatric treatment” helped him empathize with his patients while giving them hope.

Crane isn’t quite as thin as he’d been when Zsasz first laid eyes on his photo, but he’s still slender, also slightly taller than he’d been then. He is in a simple black suit with white shirt. Blue necktie with a contrasting blue tie pin. Blue cufflinks. Blue leather strap on his wrist watch.

“Please, Mr. Zsasz, take a seat. Don’t worry about what you say here. This office is camera-free and extremely well soundproofed. We could shout at the top of our lungs.”

“Or scream?” Zsasz asks innocently, settling onto the couch. The uniform’s a little itchy, but once he starts scratching he’ll have trouble stopping. He drums his hands steadily on his thighs instead.

“It’s best to be prepared.” Crane grabs a clipboard and pen. “First off, after going through so much trouble to make sure you were judged Guilty But Insane, I can’t suddenly say whoops, no, you’re sane. Besides, that would just mean straight off to Blackgate, where I wouldn’t be able to do anything for you. You stopped working for Nygma and Cobblepot a while ago, and besides, they’ve got their own Batman issues. Your other allies have agreed to keep me largely in the dark for my own protection and job security. There is some possibility that someone in a conveniently located cell will have a conveniently timed, temporary psychotic break, allowing you to be moved there after something abruptly happens to your cell. A burst pipe? I'm not sure yet. That’s still in the works.”

“Cool.”

“Good. I have to prescribe you medication, and I’m afraid I must allow you to be punished if you don’t take it.”

Zsasz nods, already planning creative disposal methods.

Crane uncaps his pen. “However, especially since we’ve shared a sexual partner for decades now, I will give you a choice over whether those medications are actually just sugar pills or not. How does that sound?”

“Sugar.”

“That being said, for years I’ve thought that you might benefit -”

_“Sugar.”_

“Understood. You should pretend to be drowsier than usual, and complain about nausea. Oh, that reminds me.” And suddenly Dr. Crane turns into Jonathan, who sticks the pen in his mouth, balances the clipboard on his thigh, and tugs a small container free from his leather satchel. He passes it to Zsasz. “Chopsticks included. Nefyn insisted on packing you and me matching bento boxes. He’s gone nuts for them. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited him to watch _Jiro Dreams of Sushi_ with me.”

There are some truly cutesy rice-and-seaweed balls in this box, it’s true. They look like puppies.

**Author's Note:**

> The link is to the stripped version of Halsey's "Colors". I like the original as well, but the stripped version has the tempo for someone dreamily dancing with a mop, and it replaces the original's ill-fitting (for this ship's) spoken interlude for the EXTREMELY fitting: "Art is not what I create. What I create is chaos."


End file.
